


Hide Behind the Mound of Dead Bards

by Bones (doctorbones)



Series: Immortality Hex Shenanigans [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Depression, If You Squint - Freeform, M/M, Minor Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer of Vengerberg, Post-Season/Series 01, Temporary Character Death, repeatedly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:53:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22892047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorbones/pseuds/Bones
Summary: Jaskier is really bad at two things: shutting up and staying dead. Luckily, he can do both at the same time...for a while.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Immortality Hex Shenanigans [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1688818
Comments: 102
Kudos: 1202





	Hide Behind the Mound of Dead Bards

She was naked and covered in soot, almost unrecognizable underneath the dark ash, but it was unmistakably Yennefer. Jaskier stood over her unmoving body. The woods were quiet around them, save for an occasional breeze that shook the leaves. Yennefer’s dark hair splayed out over the ground. Dead leaves tangled into the waves. Jaskier might have assumed she was dead, if not for the steady rise and fall of her chest.

"Well…fuck," he muttered. This was certainly not the problem he was expecting to have today, or any day really. All days. Well, maybe some days in the past when he was still traveling with Geralt. But he wasn't traveling with Geralt now. Hence, his surprise at the situation.

He couldn’t remember what had compelled him to step into the woods in the first place. It wasn’t so much like following a voice, though he felt as if he’d heard that, too. It was stronger, a pain like a hook in his chest that pulled him forward. He'd walked right out of town and into the waiting woods. About a mile in was when the pain sharpened. He'd seen her then, lying in the dappled light of the late afternoon sun. 

A year had passed since they'd last seen each other, back when he'd witnessed hers and Geralt's hearts break in tandem. The hurt that came with memories of that day had lessened over time, but darkness lingered around them still. At least darkness was something Jaskier was familiar with. It'd clung to him for most of his life. 

"Yen," he said as he crouched down and shook her shoulder. Her skin ran hot. A fever probably. 

She lay unresponsive and more attempts at rousing her proved fruitless. Throat tight, Jaskier rolled her onto her back and inspected her form. Her body was as beautiful as he remembered, but he felt nothing but worry. That spiked into panic when his eyes set on the wound in her gut. It wasn’t bleeding, but it was an angry red and swollen. 

He shrugged out of his wool coat and laid it over her. Whatever could have hurt Yennefer of Vengerberg was unquestionably terrifying, which he thought was a fair assumption because anything that could hurt her had to be at least (if not more) terrifying than her. It might still be after her. He'd stay away from highly populated areas for now, which meant he'd have to care for her himself. All his supplies were in town. He'd have to go back for them. The idea of leaving her alone unsettled him, but it would be necessary. 

The stream he’d passed had enough water and current to suggest it was an offshoot of a nearby river. He could follow it upstream, cover his tracks that way. That would work assuming that Yennefer wasn't being tracked with magic, which was entirely possible. He couldn't just leave her in the woods to die, though. For all they'd disagreed over the years, she was an honorable woman, and he'd be lying if he didn't admit a modicum of fondness for her. 

"We were supposed to stay out of the war," he muttered while he ripped cloth from the bottom of his trousers. "Don't think I didn't hear about what the Brotherhood did to Nilfgaard. The whole thing sounds like your idea. You were always so fucking reckless."

He carefully started wiping her down. Her skin was smooth as he remembered. Once upon a time, they'd exchanged skin care products and routines. That seemed a lifetime away suddenly. She was uncommonly pale now, and sweat clung to her.

Jaskier couldn't help the string of insults and angry ramblings that escaped him. Geralt would probably be looking for her, and damned if Jaskier returned her dead. That might actually break Geralt. For all the witcher's emotional stuntedness, he felt deeply, cared deeply. Yennefer had been the object of his affections for years, even if he'd never admit as much.

There were no other grievous injuries that Jaskier could see, just a few scratches and bruises. Palpating her abdomen didn't reveal any sign of internal bleeding, which was a miracle, given what was almost certainly a knife wound. A cursory inspection over her joints reassured him that she didn't have any broken bones. The fever that burned through her was more concerning. Sickness? Could mages even get sick? Infection seemed more plausible since her wound seemed so inflamed. If magic was the real culprit, though, there might be nothing Jaskier could do. He had to get her to another mage. Last he'd heard, a fair number of them had died in Nilfgaard's assault. There was one operating the next town over, a lesser witch claiming to be a simple apothecary, but Jaskier had traveled enough to recognize mages operating outside their guild. The apothecary was rumored to be able to cure just about anything. It'd be a day's walk to her at least, probably more if he had to carry Yennefer. 

"Gods damn it all, Yen." The words left him on a sigh. His best chance would be to go back to town, get his stuff, and then steal a horse. It was doable, albeit dangerous.

He straightened and turned to leave. The panic welling in his throat was easy to quash now, after so many years of waiting to see if her and Geralt returned from hunts.

"You better not die," Jaskier muttered, even knowing Yennefer couldn't hear him.

#

Yennefer's body burned with invisible flames ravaging her nerves. The echoes of her chaos' rage clawed at her insides, threatening to tear them apart. It'd taken half a forest to destroy the Nilfgaardian assault and save herself from her own power, decidedly more than a flower. The stab wound under her breastbone was at the center of the inferno in her. She was too weak now to fight the infection invading her veins.

A dim awareness of the world shifting and hands on her body alerted her to someone moving her. She lacked the strength and will to fight them. At least, whatever they were doing didn’t hurt any worse than the fire raging within her. She might have even called the hands gentle while they pulled soft cloth—silk?—over her form. The only roughness she experienced was when she felt hands hoist her up and over something firm. More adjusting her form indicated someone had set her upright on something, maybe a horse. The familiar firmness of a saddle under her and a repetitive up-and-down confirmed that much.

The warmth at her back was solid, and an arm snaked around her chest, keeping her upright. A man? Not Geralt. Smaller and leaner. Still strong. Deft fingers. His breath was at her ear, warm and steady. Where was he taking her? Where were they now? She couldn’t remember where she’d landed, probably near Lyria. Going much further would have killed her outright.

Consciousness washed over in waves, stealing her sense of time. Hours or minutes might have passed before she was shifted off the horse, cradled delicately in a pair of arms that were starting to feel familiar. The sounds around her were dulled behind the beat of her heart, but she suspected the tenor vibrations spilling over her belonged to a voice. She never had the chance to try to listen. Something in her ruptured, and the world disappeared around her.

#

Geralt stared out the window while rain struck the glass. This tavern was much like any other with worn wood paneling and scuffed flooring. Smoke lingered in the air from the hearth at the back. Travelers and locals alike sat at the tables filling the open space. He’d picked a table in the corner, away from everyone else, where he could go unnoticed.

“I heard Nilfgaard's forces are encroaching further north.”

His eyes tore away from the window to set on Ciri. Her hair was hidden beneath the hood of her cloak. It was distinctive, and while Geralt stood no chance of evading notice, he could at least limit the likeliness of her being recognized.

“The couple at the back was talking about it earlier,” she continued. “It’ll be bad if they overtake us.”

Ciri was young, but sharp—as Geralt had discovered. At times, she had the same calculating eyes as her grandmother. Childish innocence shone through sometimes, too, but less so these days.

“We’ll leave in the morning,” Geralt muttered and nodded to the bowl of soup in front of her. “Eat.” She’d been horribly thin when he’d first found her, and he refused to let her go hungry again.

She held the spoon to her lips, but froze when a man marched up to the table. He was built and tall. The smell of damp hay clung to him.

“Witcher, I have a job,” he said, tone polite but rushed. “A demon yesterday ran off with one of my horses and a woman.”

Geralt sighed. He didn’t have the time or energy for this. “I’m not taking jobs right now.”

“Please, sir. The demon was heading toward Lyria.”

Ciri glanced up at Geralt, her eyes sharp. “We’re heading that way anyway,” she pointed out.

He swallowed an unkind dismissal of her comment and let out a long breath. “What did this demon look like?”

“Well, I thought he was just a bard,” the man said, “played here for a night with no issue, but when he was riding off, I swore I saw fire in his eyes. I’ve no doubt he lured that poor woman in with his infernal voice.”

Sirens were all female, so the likeliness of this bard being anything other than a human man seemed slim.

“And what did the woman look like?” Geralt asked, figuring that would have more substance. 

"She was beautiful." The man sounded almost reverent as he spoke. "Black hair, tall, fair-skinned."

A bard and a beautiful woman who sounded suspiciously like Yennefer. It couldn't be. Coincidences like this didn't happen. Of course, he hadn't expected to find Ciri like he had either. But the odds of encountering both Jaskier and Yennefer here were virtually non-existent. He hadn't seen either of them in over a year, not since they all parted on the worst of terms after the dragons incident.

"Geralt?"

Ciri's voice snapped his attention back to the matter at hand. She and the man were staring at him curiously. 

"I'll look into it," he said after a hesitation, "but I make no promises."

The man nodded. "I suppose that's as good as I'll get. Thank you, witcher." He shuffled away.

Ciri's gaze burned on Geralt's face. After a moment, he grumbled, "What?"

"You got very quiet just now," she observed, "and you seemed...pained. Do you know who this bard and lady are?"

He pointedly avoided her eyes. "I have my suspicions."

She sipped her soup. "And what are your suspicions?"

"Don't worry about it." He stared out the window, something like hope rising in him.

But it couldn't possibly be them.

#

The town Jaskier rode into was small, a stop between the border and Lyria. Farmland stretched in all directions around an assortment of brick buildings with thatch roofs. The roads were muddy from an approaching storm. Rain fell lightly now, but given the ferocity of the wind, it'd start pouring soon.

The apothecary's shop was near the outskirts of town, not much more than a hut. Jaskier left the horse he'd stolen out front while he carried Yennefer inside. The scent of various herbs pervaded the air, virtually assaulting his nose. Shelves piled with tomes and glass flasks filled the room. At the counter near the back stood a lanky woman. Dark curls hung from her head, streaked with gray. She looked up when the bell over the door jingled. Her brown eyes widened at seeing Yennefer. 

"She's hurt," Jaskier said quickly. "Can you help her?"

The woman waved him toward a sofa in a corner, hidden behind shelves. He laid Yennefer on the plush cushions. She wore one of his shirts and a pair of his silk pajama bottoms that were too big on her. He'd wanted her to be comfortable at least.

His hand lifted the bottom of the shirt to reveal her wound. The apothecary crouched down to inspect it. When she hovered her fingers over the angry gash, she immediately snatched her hand back. 

"It's badly infected," she murmured. "I have a treatment for her, but it will take work on your part."

Jaskier grabbed the apothecary's wrist before she could leave. "Will she live?"

"I should think so. It's tricky with these things, but she seems a strong sort." When she moved to leave this time, Jaskier let her. 

Yennefer's breathing had grown shallower since they'd arrived, and she'd burned hotter on the ride over. He hoped the one stable hand who'd spied him run off with her wouldn't make a racket. The last thing he needed was some misguided soul thinking he'd spirited away a defenseless woman. That usually led to being chased by mobs with pitchforks and torches. He hated mobs with pitchforks and torches.

The apothecary returned after a minute with a bag filled with flasks. It'd be expensive, but that was the way of these things. He held Yennefer upright while the apothecary emptied blue liquid into her mouth. The flex of Yennefer's neck reassure him that she was actually swallowing. 

The apothecary spread a black, pungent paste over the wound. "This will help fight the infection at the source," she explained. "Make sure you apply this every twelve hours, once in the morning and once in the evening. She will also have to ingest the potion every four hours, even in the middle of the night.”

Jaskier pulled out a hefty amount of coins from a purse in his coat and handed them to the apothecary. Her eyes widened, but she pocketed the money. He slung the bag over his shoulder before scooping Yennefer up again. They couldn’t stay here. His face was too recognizable, as was hers, and he wouldn’t risk Nilfgaardian spies tracking them here. He would have to find somewhere in the woods to camp, far from civilization. Further north was the heart of Lyria and beyond that was Kaer Morhen, home of the witchers. Nilfgaard was carving through the center of the continent, so he’d have to move further northeast, toward the mountains.

“You don’t mean to ride with her again, do you?” the apothecary prompted. “You’re both welcome to rest here for a time.”

Jaskier shook his head. “We have to get back on the road. Thank you for your services, though, miss.” He offered an easy smile. “I hear my hands are pretty good. Rest assured that she’ll be all right in their care.”

He didn’t wait for a reply, turning on his heel and hurrying out of the shop. Yennefer already felt cooler to the touch as he laid her over the saddle and hoisted himself up. Getting her to sit upright with her legs astride the horse was as challenging as the first time, but he tried to be gentle with her. His arm wrapped around her torso, fitting between her breasts, so he could comfortably grip her shoulder and press her flush to him. It wasn’t an ideal position for riding, but he feared she’d fall off if he laid her over the back of the saddle since it wasn’t made for two people, let alone an unconscious one.

The rain was starting to pick up, so he gripped the reins with his free hand and directed the horse to the north. Yennefer’s head bobbed forward with the horse’s trotting. She could injure her neck like that, especially at fast speeds. Jaskier leaned until her head fell back on his shoulder. The arm he had around her would get tired after a while, but there were worse things than pain.

He took the main road out of town, but diverted quickly into the surrounding forest. The trees here were taller—older. Their bark bore scars from humans and animals alike. Water dripped from between their leaves and fell upon Jaskier and Yennefer in stuttered intervals. He slowed the horse as they navigated down to a ravine. The current of the stream he followed was stronger than normal from the rainfall, but it wasn’t yet dangerous. In a couple hours, it would be, and he’d have to diverge from the water onto the land where he couldn’t cover his tracks as easily. Hopefully, the precautions he’d already taken were enough.

He followed the stream until the current grew too strong. By then, the sun had disappeared, leaving him in near total darkness. His eyes scanned through the trees for a place to make shelter while he turned deeper into the woods. Yennefer was warmer by now. The apothecary had said she’d need to drink the healing solution every four hours, and it was just about time.

She was still unresponsive and limp while he fished out a flask from his bag. Pouring the flask’s contents into her mouth was difficult while she leaned on him atop the horse, but he managed it. The effect was almost immediate. Her skin cooled, not quite a normal temperature still, but close.

Not for the first time, Jaskier was thankful for the twenty-some years he’d spent traveling with Geralt. Patching up the witcher had given him more than a passing understanding and knowledge of anatomy and medicine. He’d sewn wounds together and could identify a decent amount of medicinal plants now. He knew a fair number of poison ones, too. They’d never worked on him, but then he rarely got his way, didn’t he?

His eyes dropped to the scars on Yennefer’s wrists. For all her perfect skin and hair and shape, he thought those scars were the most beautiful part of her. Not for the pain they represented, never that. They were beautiful for their honesty. She’d forged her perfect form, immortalized it, in fire and agony. But it was as sculpted as any mask. She had kept her scars like cracks in her illusion. Perhaps Jaskier’s envy at the display of her pain spoke to how long he’d worn his illusion.

A crooked tree leaned enough to block out the rain from above. Jaskier led the horse toward it. He took care in dismounting, always keeping a hand on Yennefer until he could comfortably slide her off the saddle and into his arm. Her eyes fluttered, but didn’t open. It was only for a moment, and then she stilled again.

Jaskier propped her against a tree before he tied the horse to a thick branch. He had only one bedroll, which was just as well. The nights out here were freezing, and Yennefer would need the extra body heat to get through the infection. So Jaskier pulled the bedroll from one of the saddlebags and unfurled it beneath the bough of the crooked tree. 

After laying Yennefer on the bedroll, he covered her with the furs he normally used as a blanket. Her breathing had evened out, another good sign that she was healing. If she wasn’t awake by tomorrow afternoon, he’d be surprised. She would have her usual biting remarks ready for him in all likeliness. He’d never admit that he missed their battles of insults. They hadn’t had one in some time.

The food he’d packed was modest, good for a couple days. With any luck, he wouldn’t go through his stores before Yennefer woke up. She probably intended to rejoin her mages as soon as she was well. Nilfgaard was still very much a threat to the rest of the Continent, and her involvement in the last battle spoke to at least some concern for the world at large. He wondered if he’d feel her absence when she inevitably left.

Jaskier took a bread roll from a saddlebag and stared up at the darkened canopy. His faith in the gods was tenuous on the best of days, and times like these made him resent them just a little more. Yennefer could’ve been anywhere. But he was the one who’d been nearby, who’d found her unerringly through the woods. Coincidences didn’t happen—most of the time. This seemed dangerously close to fate.

Meeting Geralt seemed like fate. Staying around him had been sheer determination on Jaskier’s part, but that first encounter all those years ago, in a tavern that looked like any other, seemed perfectly impossible now. Figured that Jaskier would find a way to fuck it up. The last words Geralt had said to him haunted his dreams, even a year later. Rationally, Jaskier understood they’d come from a place of sorrow and anger. Geralt had endured a broken heart. The words hadn’t even really been meant for Jaskier. They hurt all the same. And how strange it was that over twenty years of companionship could end so abruptly.

The tightness in his chest was familiar while he settled on the bedroll beside Yennefer. He’d never been this close to her, in any sense. At some point in the decade or so of knowing her, the venom of her words had lessened. His had as well. Their verbal matches became almost comfortable, a ritual they’d mastered over time, and expected enough that the absence of them left the air dead. What was a begrudging tolerance for each other became something like begrudging friendship. Later, he’d tell Yennefer that she wouldn’t have gone through such lengths to keep him safe and alive if their positions were reversed. But it’d be jest. She would absolutely save him and curse him all the while. 

His eyes closed after some time, but he didn’t let himself sleep. Yennefer would need another dosage of the apothecary’s potion in a couple hours. So he made sure the furs were situated right atop her and settled in for a long night.

#

The scent of blood clung to the apothecary’s shop. Geralt looked over the mess of shattered glass and poultices forming puddles on the floor. Ciri waited outside. Whatever had torn through the shop wasn’t still here, if the silence was anything to go by, but he didn’t want Ciri to witness the carnage within.

There were two scents in here, faint but unmistakable, that he had both expected and not expected. Yennefer and Jaskier had come through here. After over a year without smelling either, the combination struck him like a punch to the gut. What had they been doing here? Had they been here when whatever came through did this destruction? Were they safe or in danger?

The image of them, broken and bloody, nearly stole the air out of his lungs. He’d parted from them with unkind words that neither deserved.

A woman lay behind the counter, two deep cuts in her gut. She was still alive. Her hands clutched her wounds, as if they alone could keep her insides from escaping. He crouched beside her. A faint, sweet scent clung to her—magic.

"And now a witcher," she huffed out, her breaths uneven. "You're not here to finish the job, are you?"

He shook his head.

She let her head fall back against the floor. "So what are you here for?"

He glanced down at her wounds. They were fatal.

"I'll be fine," she said. Green sparks jumped from her fingertips. "It's just going to take me a moment."

A mage then. He decided to take her at her word. "I'm looking for two people, a man and a woman. They—"

"I was wondering why a woman with a knife wound would be in my shop. The man she was with seemed competent, which was just more suspicious. That man was far too young to carry himself like he did." She clenched her jaw a moment and let out a long breath. "Two women, twins, came in here and asked the same question you did. They also asked where the man and woman went. I didn't know, and when I told the women that, they destroyed my shop and attempted to disembowel me."

Geralt had to hand it to the apothecary. She was calm for a victim of such an assault.

"I am much older than I look," she said, as if sensing his thoughts—and she might have. "Much like you. This isn't the first or even the second time I've endured something like this. It starts to become expected, doesn't it?"

He couldn't deny that. "Where did the women go?"

"Down the road—following tracks, I assume." Her eyes held Geralt's. "I don't know why you're after the man and woman, but the twins who pursue them didn't seem to care much for reason or mercy."

Geralt nodded tersely. "What did the man and woman look like?"

She didn't answer immediately, presumably to gather her thoughts. "They were both quite distinct. The woman had long, black hair and fair skin. She was gorgeous really. The man was tall. Brown hair. He had the bluest eyes I've ever seen."

Undoubtedly Jaskier and Yennefer then.

"Fuck," Geralt muttered, chest growing tight.

"If you have no further questions, witcher, you may leave me." She stared at the ceiling. "I will do the same as soon as I am able."

He stood. "Thank you. Is there really nothing I can do for you?"

"I will be all right as I am. Go find the people you're looking for. Your worry for them is suffocating."

Geralt left the shop. Ciri stood beneath the overhang with Roach. The rain was falling hard now, as it had all night. Whatever tracks Jaskier and Yennefer had left would be washed away soon, if they hadn't already. And if Jaskier was smart, he wouldn't have left tracks that could be followed at all.

"Smells like blood," Ciri mumbled.

Geralt climbed onto Roach and extended a hand to Ciri. She took it wordlessly, and he hoisted her onto the back of the saddle. Her arms wrapped around his waist.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

He looked down at the road, noting the many hoof imprints overlapping. Which ones ones belonged to Jaskier and Yennefer? Jaskier would know to head north, away from Nilfgaard, so Geralt found the northernmost road out of town. 

He and Jaskier had plenty of times when they'd attempted to avoid being followed. Geralt didn't have much confidence that Jaskier had paid attention to any of the methods they'd used in evasion, but a set of faded tracks did veer off the dirt road, heading for the forest. He followed them with tentative hope until he came to a stream. 

It rushed across the ground, fast enough that a horse couldn't comfortably go through it. The day before, it might have been tamer, so he guided Roach along the edge, looking for any other tracks or disturbances in the woods that might indicate direction. 

"You know them, don't you?" Ciri prompted after several minutes. 

Geralt sighed. "Yes."

"Who are they?"

"Old friends."

She was quiet a moment. "You said you don't have any friends."

He might not, if he were honest with himself. Jaskier and Yennefer had both been on the receiving end of his ire, and for that, he had no one to blame but himself.

A long while later, the tracks appeared again, heading east. Geralt followed them a short ways. Beside an oddly shaped tree was a horse's corpse. It'd been disemboweled, innards spilled onto the muddy ground from its open gut. The acrid scent of its exposed digestive tract hung heavy in the air, but underneath it, fainter by comparison, was another smell.

Jaskier's blood.

Geralt's heart stuttered. His blood ran colder than the morning air. He was off Roach in the next heartbeat with a half-coherent order for Ciri to stay on. A depression in the ground marked where a bedroll had lain. Traces of Yennefer's and Jaskier's scent lingered there. There was an unfamiliar, human smell with them—the twins who'd attacked the apothecary in all likeliness. Magic still beat in the area, erratic and untamed. Yennefer's magic.

The twins had attacked, and she'd likely opened a portal to escape with herself and Jaskier. He'd been injured. This close to the site, Geralt could smell that a fair amount of Jaskier's blood had been spilled.

"Geralt?" Ciri said, voice small. 

He forced himself to breathe through the panic that was trying to take root in his gut. His legs felt numb beneath him while he stood.

Yennefer couldn't have gotten far in her condition. She would have gone even further north. Geralt would just have to keep riding until he found her and Jaskier.

Ciri didn't probe him further as he climbed onto Roach again. He was grateful for the silence. Anything he said now would come out a growl or a rasp. If anything happened to Yennefer or Jaskier…

He shook his head. Thinking about the worst would only cloud his thoughts. He had to be level-headed. 

He'd never been much good at that when it came to them.

#

Yennefer awoke to those gentle hands again. One cradled her head while the other smoothed over her belly. Something touched her lips, and then liquid spilled down her throat. It burned in an icy way. The rage in her blood receded in response, letting her breathe easier.

"We can't stay here, Yen." The voice was familiar, a tenor that had sung her to sleep for several years.

Her eyes snapped open. Jaskier's blue irises hovered over her, and she resented the relief that came with seeing them. It'd been over a year. She'd resigned herself to never seeing him again.

"Jaskier?" Her voice sounded rough to her ears. Every inch of her body ached, and her throat was no exception.

His smile was small and surprisingly genuine. If anyone bothered to pay attention, they might have noticed just how often his smiles didn't touch his eyes. The bard, for all his light affectation, rarely displayed genuine emotion. Everything was wrapped in theatrics and a white-toothed grin. 

"How are you feeling?" he asked. "You've been unconscious for at least a day."

She felt like she'd nearly torn herself apart with her own magic. "Where are we?"

"Lyria." He helped her sit up when she tried and failed to do it herself. "Is there anyone after you? I've stayed away from the main roads and large towns, but if someone is tracking you by magic, nothing I've done can help."

"Does anything you do help, Jas?" The snappy remark came automatically, and she regretted it as soon as it left her mouth. The man had obviously taken care of her, maybe saved her life, and she was just a bitch.

"Sorry," she muttered quietly. 

He shook his head. "Wouldn't believe it was you if you demonstrated a modicum of empathy." The insult lacked it's usual vigor, as if he were distracted.

"How did you find me, Jas?" she asked, glancing down at her form. The pajamas she wore were too loose on her, but silk. They were Jaskier's almost certainly. There was a time when she would have commented on his gaudy taste in clothes, but she was just too tired. Also, the pajamas were quite comfortable.

"You sort of fell across my path," he said. "Felt this...pulling of a sort. Figured it was magic nonsense. Next thing I knew, I was standing over you all naked and disgusting. Had to clean up all the grime on you. Honestly, it looked like you'd been at an orgy with goblins, which I'm sure you're already familiar with. Anyway, I cleaned you up, stole a horse, carried you to an apothecary who gave me some medicine, and this sludge to put on you." He pointed to her abdomen. 

She pulled her shirt up to reveal black paste spread over her stab wound. It was indeed fighting the infection within her, so the apothecary had been a good one at least. 

"Wait, you stole a horse?" she blurted as soon as the words sunk in. Her eyes lifted to confirm that there was in fact a horse grazing the foliage near where it'd been tied.

"Well, I wasn't very well going to carry you all the way to the next town over, now was I?" He looked her over. "Can you stand? We've already spent more time here than I'd like. If someone is coming after you, then the less we linger, the better. Unless you'd like someone to come finish the job. I certainly won't protest."

The words were sharp, but she felt none of the sting, hadn't in years really. A decade or so of biting remarks would do that. Besides, someone who didn't care about her life would never have tried to save it in the first place. He had no reason to treat her so gently if he despised her. She couldn't remember when exactly her animosity had grown into fondness, but it was there all the same.

"I could kill you with a finger, bard," she warned him.

His eyes widened theatrically. "And what a pretty finger it is. Is that the newest shade of black on the nail? Did they run out of Crushing Darkness, or do you prefer Chipped Ebony as your shade now?"

Her lips twitched, the thrill of the fight humming through her. She'd missed this, though would never admit as much. "And I see you've got yourself the newest rendition of deflated peacock. Tell me, do the elderly silk merchants give you their old threads, or do you have to pay for them?"

Jaskier opened his mouth to no doubt offer a return criticism, but then his head snapped to the side. He held up a hand to her, a signal to be quiet. The patter of the rain on the tree leaves was all she heard. He carefully got to his feet, eyes darting around. Yennefer didn't dare move. His hand wrapped around the neck of the lute strapped to the horse's saddle, and then the dagger underneath it. She'd never seen him in a fight, but doubted his ability to use a weapon. He wasn't the fighting sort.

The sound of a twig snapping underfoot made both of them tense. A moment later, the horse wailed and brayed. Its blood sprayed out from its gut as it keeled over. Entrails oozed from the slice in its gut.

A pair of women stood behind the fallen horse. Heavy, black robes hung over their forms. They had the same blond hair and angular face. Twin sisters most likely. One had a whip in her hand. The other had a crossbow trained on Yennefer.

Jaskier immediately stepped between her and them. "Go," he said sharply. "If you can run, go."

She'd never known the bard to be the heroic type, and she wasn't sure she liked it. "Jaskier, you'll die."

He muttered something that sounded vaguely like, "If only."

One of the twins loosed an arrow. It hit Jaskier squarely in the shoulder, but he barely flinched. 

"For fuck's sake, Yen," he growled, "get out of here!"

She took a deep breath and murmured a few Elder words. A portal started to open up behind her. Another arrow hit Jaskier in the gut. He pulled it out, along with the other. 

Yennefer stood on shaky legs, but she grabbed Jaskier by the back of his shirt, nabbed the bedroll, and pulled them through. The whistle of another arrow sounded just before she closed the portal behind them.

They were in a different forest, one further north. She hadn't been able to go far, still too weak, but it'd take the twins at least a day to catch up. Jaskier's injuries were more pressing. 

He fell to his knees on the damp ground. Blood poured out his gut and shoulder. The third arrow was stuck in his leg. He pulled that one out as well and collapsed to the ground. His lute and dagger fell from his hands. Glass clinked together from the bag slung over his shoulder.

Yennefer dragged herself to his side and pressed her hands to his wounds. No sooner were the words at her lips before Jaskier clamped his hand over her mouth. 

"Don't," he said with more confidence than he had any right to in this situation. "I'll be fine."

She blinked and smacked his hand away. "Jaskier, you're mortally wounded. If I don't help, you'll die."

"Conserve your strength. Find Geralt." He pulled the bag from his shoulder. "This has all your medicine. The solution needs to be drunk every four hours. The poultice is applied every twelve."

"Jas, I'm not—"

"Go, Yen. Please." His blood was blooming through his shirt, nearly dying the entire front red. "Find Geralt."

Her heart sank as his eyes slid shut, and his pulse slowed underneath her hands. He was right for once. She wasn't strong enough to save him. This wasn't at all how she envisioned him dying—in protection of her. Geralt would be devastated when he found out.

It took all she had to pry her hands away from him and grab the bag of medicine. An irrational anger burned through her that this son of a bitch had actually gotten her to mourn him. The twist in her chest stole her breath.

But she wouldn't leave him here. He deserved better than that.

With shaking hands, she slung his lute over his shoulder, heaved his body over her back, and stood. Her legs nearly gave out under his weight, but she gritted her teeth and forced herself to step forward. It was stupid, she knew. The twins still pursued her, and here she was slowing herself down.

"Fuck you, Jas," she grumbled. "You better hope I don't find you in death."

#

Dying was a terribly unpleasant process, but not more unpleasant than coming back to life. Sometimes death could be as easy as falling asleep. Waking up was always an arduous process. Every beat of Jaskier's heart burned. The wounds in his body had fleshed over by now, but they still ached. 

Some part of him hoped, as it did every time he died, that this would be the last. It never was, of course, no matter how many times he'd tried. Didn't stop him from hoping all the same. It was an epic irony eclipsing any story he'd spun. The suicidal bard who brought merriment couldn't inspire any in himself and couldn't kill himself either. Truly, he was the tragic sort that poets made their coin on.

Something hard was at his back, stone maybe. He wasn't where he'd died then. That had been upon tree roots and damp leaves. This floor felt dry and hard. Who'd moved him? Yennefer? He hoped not. She would kill him again if she discovered he was never in any real danger.

His eyes fluttered open to stare at a stone ceiling. Shadows flickered across it. The warmth at his side indicated someone had built a fire nearby. To his other side was the mouth of the cave he lay in. Stars twinkled over the dark trees looming in the night. 

The sharp sound of glass shattering made him tense. He turned his head toward the source. Yennefer sat beside a campfire, hands open in front of her. The shards of a flask lay by her legs. Her eyes were wide as he met them. 

"Ah, so...yes," he started haltingly. "I'm not dead...as you can tell...probably. I'm fine really. No need to worry. It's all...perfectly normal."

She grabbed a large glass shard from the ground and sprinted for him. He hadn't so much as blinked before she was astride him with the shard against his neck.

"What manner of magic are you?" she demanded, voice nearly a growl. "Are you one of Fringilla's bastard spectres?"

He didn't bother with feeling afraid. His self-preservation instinct was near non-existent at this point. 

"Yen, it's really me," he said with a sigh.

Her jaw set, and the glass bit enough into his neck that it bled. "Prove it."

He paused a moment to think. "Your favorite song is 'Mine Eyes.'"

"It is not!" An indignant edge pitched her voice higher.

He chuckled. "Oh, yes, it is. I've seen you mouth all the words when I've played it. It is the sappiest composition I have ever composed, and you, Yennefer of Vengerberg, have a soft spot for love."

She didn't remove the glass shard. "So if I kill you right now, you'll just come back again?"

He rolled his eyes. "Now, Yen, there's no need for that. I know you wear spite as closely as your skin, but it's not your color."

"I must wonder how I got so lucky." Mischief glinted in her violet eyes. "How I've fantasized about slitting that pretty throat, and now I could without consequence."

"You think my throat is pretty?" He cocked a brow and tilted his chin up, exposing more of his neck. "Do your worst then."

Her smile was slow. "You really have no fear, do you?"

"Mm, haven't really found it necessary, and I'm no stranger to rough treatment. I'd dare even say it's fun on occasion " He rolled his hips, guessing that she'd find it repulsive. To his surprise, her eyes lit up. 

She leaned forward until he could taste her breath. Her hand still pressed the glass to his neck. "I really thought you were dead, you know. I was bracing myself for all the brooding Geralt would do when I told him. You know how I hate his brooding. I was quite distressed really, and now I can't even have the satisfaction of killing you permanently. How will you make it up to me?"

Well, he wasn't expecting this turn of events. "I have but two things to offer, milady, and you've already expressed disdain for my voice."

Her smile widened. "And what's the other thing?"

"My, my. If I didn't know any better, Yen, I'd say you were flirting."

"It's a good thing you know better than to say that." She dropped the shard of glass, and her hand pressed instead to his neck.

He really shouldn't have been turned on by a woman with more than a passing interest in murdering him, but that had never stopped him in the past. Geralt ripped monsters apart with his bare hands regularly. 

Jaskier might have a type.

He barely had a moment to wonder if Geralt would hate him more for this before Yennefer's lips were on his. She kissed like she argued—rough and all bite. It felt like the sexual version of their verbal bouts, and he would be remiss not to rise to the challenge—pun absolutely intended.

He tangled his hands in her hair and pulled lightly. The sharp intake of air from her felt like a victory, but then her hips ground down into his. He bit back the groan that threatened to escape her, refusing to give her the satisfaction.

Her hand was still at his throat. It squeezed tighter while she bit his lower lip. His nails dragged down her back and held her hips in place while he ground against her. The taste of rainwater and ash filled the kiss, and Jaskier anticipated he'd never think of storms and campfires the same way again. 

She was the one who eventually unbuttoned his pants and pulled her own off. He usually preferred to take his time with his lovers, but they weren't in this for the intimacy. This was about sex, about release, about anger. They both wanted what they couldn't have. And she doubtlessly was mad with him for making her think he was dead. Perhaps it was presumptuous of him, but he was fairly confident that she genuinely cared about him, if only because he genuinely cared about her.

When she sank down on his cock, he couldn't stop the moan that punched out of him. Her grin was downright predatory. It dropped, however, when he reached between her thighs. Slick heat surrounded him and coated his fingers. She moved her hips with purpose. He made sure she'd feel every move at the tips of his fingers and where they were joined. 

Her hand was nearly bruising at his neck now, forcing him to draw ragged breaths. She couldn't maintain a consistent rhythm after a time, and he took that as incentive to move his hand faster. Her inner walls tightened a moment before she cried out. The grip at his throat completely cut off his airway for a solid few seconds. And then she collapsed on him. 

He wasn't all that interested in finishing. That wasn't the purpose of this. He could find climax with anyone, as he had for most his life, but this was a conversation of sorts—a reminder of their long history together and the relationship borne of that history. It wasn't love, at least not the romantic sort. Friendship maybe. Partnership certainly. Did it need to be more?

She rolled off him with a slow exhale. "So," she murmured, "you're not dead."

"The evidence would suggest so," he agreed. 

"You're not surprised by that." She wiped the sweat from her forehead. "How many times have you died, Jas?"

He didn't answer, knowing the real number would disturb her. 

"I see." She sounded troubled. "Were you going to tell me or just let me think you'd died?"

"Well, I didn't want you to waste time on me." He shrugged. "And I really was fine, like I told you."

"And how long have you been not dying?"

"About thirteen years, if my math is right. Though I didn't know definitively until ten years ago."

She was quiet a long moment. "Does Geralt know?"

He shoved a hand through his hair. "Does it matter? He made it clear last time we spoke that he wants nothing to do with me."

"I don't know what he said, but I'm sure he didn't mean it." She turned her head to meet his eyes. "He'd flatten mountains for you."

Jaskier cocked a brow. "Did I fuck the bitterness out of you? No, no, wait. Don't tell me. Let me bask in my glory a moment."

She smacked the top of his head lightly. "Shut up."

He buttoned his pants and sat up. "As milady wishes."

"Is that all it takes now to get you to be quiet? Did I fuck the rambling monologues out of you?"

"Go die."

"I wish I could tell you to do the same, but I don't think it'd be effective." She pushed herself to a sitting position and grabbed her pants where they lay discarded nearby.

Jaskier didn't watch while she dressed, didn't feel interested in it even if she welcomed the attention. She seemed unfazed anyway. There were more pressing matters at hand.

Their food had been with the horse. It was gone now. They'd have to find a town and re-supply, but that could wait for the morning. For now, a short strum on his lute and rest sounded like the best course of action. 

Yennefer sat cross-legged by the fire while he took his lute from where it was propped against a wall. They didn't speak while he tuned it, and the silence only stretched on until he sat down and played her favorite song.

#

Geralt caught the scent of blood as soon as the rains let up. It was heavy with Jaskier's scent, and the closer he got to it, the stronger it grew. He had to push down the grief threatening to suffocate him. There was no way Jaskier could've survived losing so much blood.

Ciri's arms were tight around Geralt's middle while the rode Roach through the forest. Night had fallen, but the dark wasn't oppressive with the moon overhead. Yennefer had stayed away from the main roads, as was expected. Geralt had simply wandered north until he caught Jaskier's scent. It was getting stronger with every step Roach took, and nausea churned in Geralt's gut.

He pulled Roach back when they were almost upon the source. Ciri had seen death before, but he didn't want to add Jaskier's body to her memories.

"Wait," he told her and Roach before sliding off.

His feet felt heavy while he stepped through the trees and over damp roots. The blood stains weren't far. Much of the evidence had been washed away from the rain, but he smelled how saturated the earth was with Jaskier's blood. The body was nowhere to be found. His scent went further north. Someone had moved him—Yennefer probably.

He returned to Roach. Ciri had the grace not to ask him questions while he climbed back on and turned north. They followed the trail to a rocky outcropping in the landscape. Yennefer's scent lingered here, too, masked by the thickness of Jaskier's blood. It led Geralt directly to a cave in the rocks. Light flickered out of the mouth, along with smoke.

He heard the lute first, the strings bringing a mix of fond nostalgia and guilt. And then a voice that'd sung him to sleep for two decades flew on the air. 

_In the dark, in the night_

_Or in the morning light,_

_My love's the only one for me_

_To mine eyes, perfect reverie_

_Take all the stars down_

_Love, you're all I've lost and found_

_Cage me or set me free_

_To mine eyes, perfect reverie_

_Do you really have to leave_

_Before the sun ends this eve?_

_No, you'll never say you're sorry_

_But to mine eyes, perfect reverie_

"Who's that?" Ciri whispered into Geralt's back. "His voice is beautiful."

Geralt hardly heard her. He numbly dismounted and stepped toward the mouth of the cave. His heart pounded in his chest, as fast as it could for a witcher.

Jaskier sat by a campfire, strumming away on Filavandrel's lute. Yennefer lay beside him. Blood dyed the back of her meager clothes, but it wasn't hers. Jaskier's front was in a similar state. His eyes lifted from the fire and met Geralt's stare. The music abruptly died at the bard's fingertips, and his mouth clamped shut. Yennefer lifted her head, and then followed Jaskier's gaze to Geralt's.

The three of them did nothing for a heartbeat. Geralt wasn't sure what to say. How are you alive? What the fuck happened? Are you hurt?

"Geralt?" Ciri's voice was jarring in the silence, making him tense. She'd climbed off Roach and was now making her way to Geralt.

Jaskier's eyes widened when he saw her, but he still didn't speak. 

"Ciri, this is Jaskier and Yennefer," Geralt introduced absently when she stared at the pair quizzically.

Jaskier got to his feet. Blood and sex clung to him, which just raised more questions. Yennefer smelled similarly, and wasn't that just more befuddling. Geralt had been under the impression that the two were begrudging companions. But then today was just full of surprises.

Yennefer stood when Jaskier glanced back at her. They stepped closer. Geralt noted the three blooming punctures in Jaskier's shirt and trousers. The one in his gut would have been fatal. Had Yennefer saved him? She seemed to be in a weak state herself. 

"I followed the scent of your blood," Geralt explained, looking Jaskier over. "Why aren't you dead?"

Jaskier folded his arms over his chest. "Well, it's good to see you, too, dear. Gruff as ever. Do you greet all your forgotten friends with such disdain?"

"Jaskier." Geralt drew out the name in warning. 

"Well, the last time we spoke you said that my extrication from your life would be the gods' greatest blessing, so forgive me if I'm quite confused as to why you would bother coming after me." He glanced toward Yennefer who was pointedly looking elsewhere. "Oh, right. It's not about me. You were never concerned for my well-being, and I suppose it's astute that I wouldn't presume so anymore. After all, you don't care a lick about—"

Geralt clamped a hand over his mouth. "I was already mourning you, you dumb bastard. And given the evidence, I still should be. How the fuck are you alive?"

"He is himself, Geralt," Yennefer said, voice flat. "I checked myself."

"Yes, I can smell that, too." Geralt wasn't jealous per se, but there was a seed of...something bad...in his gut.

Jaskier slapped Geralt's hand away. "Can we perhaps not do this in front of the child?" He took Ciri's hand. "Sorry, darling. I'm sure you've already gone through all kinds of unpleasantness, and I would hate to add— My gods, you really are the spitting image of Pavetta."

Ciri blinked. Geralt expected her to give a polite greeting, but the next words out her mouth were downright disconcerting.

"How old are you?" she asked. "My mother died over a decade ago, but you don't seem a day over twenty-five."

Jaskier's entire body tensed. Yennefer's head perked up, and she held Geralt's eyes.

"Oh, of course," she muttered with a groan. "I should have known. It's an immortality hex."

Geralt sighed heavily. Jaskier was staring at the ground.

"What's an immortality hex?" Ciri asked, looking around curiously. 

"Dark magic," Yennefer said while her eyes wandered over Jaskier's form. "It's usually cast on dying souls to prolong their suffering. The last one I heard of was a mage who threw a man into a volcano and hexed him there. No one could get the man out, and he's still dying over and over in the lava. Will be until the hex wears off in...seven hundred years or so."

Geralt's eyes narrowed on Jaskier's youthful face. How had he never noticed the bard didn't age? They'd been together twenty years, and he'd never really questioned Jaskier's unchanging form. To be fair, there were other matters at hand, but still. 

Something wasn't adding up, though. "An immortality hex requires the accursed's suffering to maintain itself," he said. "Jaskier would only be the same age as he was when it was cast if he'd been suffering all this time."

Jaskier's chuckle was strained. "Well, that's preposterous." He spoke far too quickly. "Suffering for thirteen years. That's not possible."

Yennefer arched a brow. "You've always been a terrible liar, bard."

"He does have a point, though," Geralt said. "Suffering for thirteen years, often enough to slow his aging this much, would be no small thing."

"So what ails you, Jas?" Yennefer asked, sounding genuinely curious now.

Jaskier took a step back. "Nothing either of you need be concerned with." He glanced at Ciri. "We can talk about this later, if we must. This is hardly the conversation to have now."

Geralt couldn't refute that, not while something pursued them. "What happened?" he asked. "I found the remains of your horse, and something obviously tried to kill you."

"Succeeded, not tried," Jaskier corrected with far too much cheer in his tone.

"Twin assassins," Yennefer said with a disapproving side-eye at Jaskier. "I managed to get us away, at the expense of Jaskier, but he's fine now."

"You never did say why you carried my body and lute all the way over here."

"I will kill you with no hesitation, bard."

"Promises, promises."

Geralt scowled. "Do you want to die?"

Jaskier shrugged. "Well, no one's really cared about what I want, so does it matter?"

"Jaskier."

"Geralt."

They glowered at each other until Yennefer sighed and took Ciri's hand.

"Come warm yourself by the fire, dear," she urged. "The boys need to talk out their nonsense."

Geralt let her pull Ciri away. Something was knotted up in his chest, had been for a year, and he had stopped to examine it too closely. Staring at Jaskier now, he suspected that what he felt was something dangerously close to longing. They'd parted as harshly as he had with Yen. But it was somehow worse. Jaskier had offered friendship and support, and Geralt had shoved it back in his face.

"You knew about the hex, didn't you?" Geralt said. "How long?"

Jaskier stared into the trees, jaw set. "Thirteen years thereabouts. Bedded the wrong mage. She didn't appreciate that I wasn't interested in marrying her, and when I tried to leave, she buried me alive and hexed me. I thought I fell asleep multiple times before I clawed my way out of the ground. In retrospect, I'd died repeatedly from lack of air."

"Hmm." Geralt could imagine him clawing at the ceiling of a wood box until his fingers bled.

"Didn't put the pieces together until three years later," Jaskier continued. "I...tried to end things myself. Imagine my disappointment."

Geralt's stomach twisted. "Why would you want to kill yourself?"

Jaskier shrugged. "Why does anyone, Geralt? Some days I'm fine, and some days I can't even feel the sun on my skin. Sure, I go through the motions well enough. People enjoy my work, and that brings some joy. Song and dance fall woefully short with matters of fulfillment though. The most useful I've felt has been looking after you, and even then, I know that I'm just a hindrance. Makes a man wonder at the function of his existence when the person he's built his life and career around doesn't even want him around."

Well...fuck. Geralt knew that his emotional ineptitude could hurt Jaskier, but he'd never thought it'd been anything so severe.

"Please don't look at me like that." Jaskier's voice was soft. "I was prone to misery before you came along, Geralt. It's not your fault I am this way, and it doesn't really matter now, does it? It's not like I can finish the job."

Jaskier's slowed aging made more sense now. His torture wasn't physical, but suffering was suffering. And he could never escape his mind. Geralt was oddly thankful to whatever mage had cast the hex, though. Jaskier would almost certainly be dead if she hadn't, and Geralt would have done anything to avoid the grief that had nearly overwhelmed him when he'd thought Jaskier had died.

"Did you mean what you said?" Jaskier asked when Geralt didn't respond. "About mourning me."

Geralt swallowed past the tightness in his throat and nodded.

Jaskier chewed his lip a moment. "What happened to wanting me out of your life?" 

"I...was angry," Geralt said, having to force his words out. If ever there were a time to be honest, it was now. Jaskier deserved it.

"I gathered that." Jaskier tore his eyes from the treeline to hold Geralt's gaze. "You were quite...explicit."

Geralt took a breath, resigned to being uncomfortable in this conversation. "I was angry, and I took it out on you when I shouldn't have."

"You didn't come after me."

"I didn't think you wanted me to."

Jaskier looked toward the trees again. "I wanted…" He shook his head and ran a hand down his face. "Doesn't matter what I wanted. We're here now, a year later."

Geralt got the odd sense that Jaskier would slip out of his life again, and he couldn't allow a second time, not as they were. "It does matter, Jas. Tell me."

"And what right do you have to demand my thoughts now?" Jaskier's eyes burned as he glared up at Geralt. "You didn't give a shit about them before."

"That's not true, and you know it."

"Do I? Twenty years we were together, Geralt, and not once have you called me a friend. I just followed after you like a fucking fool until you told me in no uncertain terms that I was the bane of your existence. So perhaps you can understand why I might think that your sudden interest in my opinions is disingenuous at best and manipulative at worst."

The words stung worse than a slap. Geralt wished that Jaskier had physically hit him instead. That was easier to tolerate than the deep well of guilt growing in him.

"If you must know," Jaskier continued, "I wanted you to come after me. I wanted to believe that you might, even when I knew you wouldn't. I wanted to forget the day I met you and the years I wasted trying to befriend you. I wanted to be angry with you, instead of hurt. Anger's so much easier to deal with than believing that the person I'd dedicated myself toward for two decades realized I really was the scum of the earth. I wanted that to not feel like a confirmation of my fears."

He spoke far too levelly for the weight of his words, as if he'd gotten accustomed to the pain behind them. Geralt didn't know what to say, never did really, and now seemed the worst time to lose his tongue. He'd lose Jaskier. Again.

"Good talk," Jaskier muttered with a sigh. "Don't know what I expected."

When he turned to leave, Geralt caught his wrist. "Jas, wait."

"I think I've done enough of that." Jaskier tried to pull his hand away, but Geralt tugged him closer until they were almost chest to chest. 

This close, Geralt could see the stars reflected in Jaskier's blue eyes. 

_Take all the stars down_

_Love, you're all I've lost and found_

_Cage me or set me free_

_To mine eyes, perfect reverie_

The song lyrics shot through Geralt's mind from the image before him, and he ignored them, not willing to deal with that just now. He pulled Jaskier into his arms. The bard stiffened, and Geralt braced to be pushed away. But then tentative hands lifted to rest at his waist. Jaskier let out a long breath.

"I wanted to go after you," Geralt admitted, dragging the words out of himself against every instinct to bite them back. "I thought you'd be better off without me. I still think you would be. I thought I was sparing you."

Jaskier's shoulders trembled. "You're a real bastard, you know that?"

"I do."

"And I hate you."

"No, you don't."

Jaskier was quiet a moment, and when he did speak, his voice was barely above a whisper. "Don't do that again."

Geralt hadn't known a plea could make his heart break. "I won't."

#

Yennefer waited until Jaskier and Ciri were asleep before she wandered to the mouth of the cave. Geralt sat in the night air, keeping watch with his sword across his lap. She sat beside him. For a moment, neither of them spoke. She sensed his questions, though, and how much he wanted to ask him.

"If you want to say something," she muttered, "then do."

He sighed heavily. "I never know what to say to you, Yen."

She shoved a hand through her hair. "Don't be dramatic. You have questions. Ask them."

"Fine." His tone was sharp. "Why'd you fuck Jas?"

That had a more complicated answer than she liked. She'd thought he'd died, and it had hurt—worse than she cared to admit. And when he had returned, it was equal parts infuriating and relieving. She had wanted to feel him, ground him as real in her mind, and sex just so happened to be an easy access to that.

But that wasn't what Geralt was really asking about.

"Are you jealous?" she inquired with honest curiosity. 

His lips pursed. "No… Yes? Fuck, I don't know."

She looked him over. "Of whom were you jealous?"

"Of whom? What do you mean?" His voice was nearly a growl, which betrayed his real feelings.

"We're bound together, you and I. No avoiding it. But Jaskier was with you long before me, and given today's reveal, he might very well be with you long after. That is, of course, if you’re able to keep him. As is, you might lose him again." She leaned toward him, getting in his space to emphasize her next words. "No need to be jealous of me. You've got me. Jaskier, on the other hand… Well, that's a bit more delicate, isn't it?"

The muscles in his jaw flexed. "What are you trying to say, Yen?"

She took his chin and tugged it until their eyes met. "Some people never really leave us—not by distance and not in death. Their absence is a wound. Can you honestly tell me that you have not felt the hole Jas left behind?"

His silence was as much confirmation as she'd get most likely.

"He's longed for you, Geralt," she continued and dropped her hand from his chin. "Be a dear and don't fuck it up."

When she stood, he caught her hand, keeping her from walking away. "Why are you saying all this?"

She glanced over her shoulder at where Jaskier lay by the dying fire. "The older I get, the more I appreciate that bard for the rarity that he is. I doubt I'll ever love him as you do, but he gave his life for me. I think I'd do the same. You would, too. Companionship like that is in short supply these days. I'd hate to see you ruin a good thing for yourself with that headstrong independence." She smoothed his hair back. "Or perhaps it's cowardice that cripples you."

His grip on her hand tightened. "I'm dangerous to be around. You can hold your own. He's just—"

"Immortal." She shook her head. "You're running out of excuses, Ger." She took her hand from his. "In the morning, I'll take us to the northern border, and we'll spend the night in Aldersberg. After that, I will return to Tissaia to continue aiding the fight against Nilfgaard. You and Jaskier will have to protect your child surprise on your own."

Geralt returned his attention to the forest. "Stay alive out there, Yen."

"If you'd do me the same courtesy." She bent to kiss the top of his head. "Think about what I've said, yeah?"

He nodded tersely, and she headed back to the fire.

#

The morning came like any other. Geralt had a spare shirt and trousers for Jaskier to wear that weren't covered in blood, and what an odd thing that was. Geralt's smell was all over Jaskier when he changed into a simple, black shirt and trousers to match. It was distracting honestly, and Geralt kept glowering at him, probably resentful about sharing clothes. Jaskier didn't feel an ounce of guilt.

"I can go as far as the border with Aedirn," Yennefer said when they'd all finished packing and grouped together at the mouth of the cave. She wore one of Geralt's cloaks to conceal her bloodied form and a pair of Ciri's shoes. "We'll have to continue the rest of the way to Aldersberg on foot. We can get rooms in town, resupply. I'll have to leave in the morning."

Jaskier stood with Ciri while Geralt pulled Roach closer. After Aldersberg, this would probably be the last time they were all together for a long while yet. War was a nasty thing after all, and it'd be a rough one against Nilfgaard's forces.

"Don't look so sad, bard," Yennefer said with a small smile. "I know you wear it like your skin, but it's not your color."

That got a smile out of Jaskier. "Who'd be sad to see you go, witch?" he teased.

She flicked his nose, making him jump. "Watch yourself." 

Jaskier watched while she opened a portal. He gently pushed Ciri toward it and went through with her. Geralt followed close behind with Roach and Yennefer. They emerged on the side of a wide road, probably leading toward Aldersberg. Just three days' ride further north would be Yennefer's hometown.

"Ciri, ride," Geralt ordered.

She climbed onto Roach without protest. Her eyes flitted between Geralt, Jaskier, and Yennefer. 

They collectively headed north, following the road. Not a minute had passed before Ciri said, "What was the song you were singing last night, Jaskier?"

He glanced up at her. "It's called 'Mine Eyes.'"

"I've heard it before. My grandfather sung it sometimes."

Jaskier could imagine Eist humming along to the tune. The late Cintran king always had been weak to love, especially when it concerned Calanthe.

"Jaskier wrote it around the time you were born," Yennefer said, and didn't that make Jaskier feel ancient.

"Will you sing it again?" Ciri's bright blue eyes were big. She really looked so much like her mother. 

"As milady wishes," Jaskier said with a slight smile and took his lute from his back. He strummed it once before bringing his hands to the correct position.

_If I wished for one thing_

_A djinn's magic might bring,_

_I would have you for one more day._

_I would fall in love and stay._

_We're worlds away, my dear._

_Your best company is fear,_

_But still I'm waiting for you._

_Sometimes our days seem so few._

_In the dark, in the night_

_Or in the morning light,_

_My love's the only one for me._

_To mine eyes, perfect reverie._

_Take all the stars down._

_Love, you're all I've lost and found._

_Cage me or set me free._

_To mine eyes, perfect reverie._

_Do you really have to leave_

_Before the sun ends this eve?_

_No, you'll never say you're sorry._

_But to mine eyes, perfect reverie._

_And should I die now,_

_Six feet into the ground,_

_You may not come find me then,_

_Not even at my end._

_So I'll sing. I'll use this voice._

_You see, I have no choice_

_But to fall in love and stay._

_While you drift away._

_In the dark, in the night_

_Or in the morning light,_

_My love's the only one for me._

_To mine eyes, perfect reverie._

_Take all the stars down._

_Love, you're all I've lost and found._

_Cage me or set me free._

_To mine eyes, perfect reverie._

_Do you really have to leave_

_Before the sun ends this eve?_

_No, you'll never say you're sorry._

_But to mine eyes, perfect reverie._

The last notes drifted off his fingertips, and he found his voice oddly raw by the end. Geralt was stiff beside him, staring firmly at the ground while they walked. Ciri had a peaceful expression. Yennefer's face was perfectly unreadable, but she always appreciated 'Mine Eyes.'

"I never realized it was so sad," Ciri murmured. "Who's it about?"

Jaskier forced himself not to look at Geralt. Yennefer was under no obligation to do the same, glancing askance at the witcher with knowing eyes.

"Someone I loved long ago," Jaskier admitted.

"But not anymore?"

"Hmm, well… To be honest, cub, I'm not sure if we ever really stop loving people." Jaskier ran a thumb over the neck of his lute. "Even when they break your heart."

She frowned. "You still love them then?"

"Afraid so. What shall I do about it? I've grown quite tired of pining, and I'm sure I could fall in love with someone less ornery. All seems tiresome more than anything at this point." He offered a smile to make sure she didn't take the words as heavily as they felt on his lips.

She tapped her knee a moment. "Have you told them how you feel?"

"Oh, perish the thought. They'd laugh in my face surely." Jaskier didn't honestly believe that, but he also didn't think confessions of love would go over well. He'd dealt with quite enough rejection.

Ciri hummed thoughtfully. "Seems like they're awfully cruel then, to make you sing such a sad song and then laugh at your pain. Perhaps you'd be better off without them."

Yennefer's laugh broke through the quiet morning air. Jaskier couldn't help his own laughter. Geralt glanced at the pair like they'd lost their minds. Oh, he really had no idea, did he? That was just as well. Jaskier had no intention of pursuing Geralt, which had remained true for the past fifteen years or so—since he'd realized his feelings. It had been a gradual thing, falling in love. That was usually the case. Jaskier couldn't remember just when his fascination with the man had turned into yearning, into seeking fingers and searching eyes, into something overpowering. Geralt had never shown the faintest bit of reciprocation, and Jaskier didn't need it, not really. He'd contented himself for years with just being near Geralt. That had been enough. Suffering was no stranger to Jaskier, after all.

It felt hollow now. And it had since last year.

"What's so funny?" Ciri asked, as if she hadn't just horribly insulted her adopted witcher father.

Yennefer took a steadying breath between her dying chuckles. "Oh, don't worry about it, ducky," she said. "You're absolutely right. Jaskier fell for a terrible, terrible person."

Geralt blinked. "You know who it is?" he asked lamely. "He's never told me."

"Yes, he has. Do try to keep up, dear."

Jaskier grinned, remembering what he liked about Yennefer. She was a bitch, but she was a loyal one. They shared that in common, he supposed.

"Do you have any other songs about them?" Ciri asked, eyes sparkling with curiosity.

"Oh, I have loads," Jaskier admitted. Most of his songs were about Geralt, in fact. Not so many love songs per se, but tales of their adventures.

Ciri smiled. "Will you play one?"

Jaskier forced himself to smile back as he said, "How about I just play 'Toss a Coin to Your Witcher'? It's a classic."

Yennefer clamped a hand over her mouth, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. 

"No, a love song," Ciri insisted. "You sang the last one so beautifully."

Jaskier plucked his strings absently while he considered the request. "All right then. This one is a little sadder and less popular."

He strummed the first few notes and opened his mouth.

_Lay down the sword,_

_Lay down the shield,_

_It's grown too cold._

_It's time to yield._

_My love's not coming back._

_My love's not coming back._

_Took my heart and ran._

_Was it always your plan?_

_Now I know what I lack._

_My love's not coming back._

_Bring me to my knees._

_Darling, you do it so well._

_Wouldn't hear any of my pleas._

_S'why it hurt when I fell._

_My love's not coming back._

_My love's not coming back._

_Took the stars and moon_

_Stole them from my sky._

_Left me in ruins,_

_And yet I can't die._

_Broke my heart, it's cracked._

_And now my love's not coming back._

"When did you write that one?" Ciri asked. "I've never heard it before."

Jaskier did glance at Geralt then, considering how to answer. What his mind landed on was a terse 'fuck it.' "About a year ago," he admitted. 

Geralt made a choked sound. Yennefer virtually howled with laughter. Ciri looked around, brows pressed together in confusion.

"Don't mind them, cub," Jaskier said gently. "The joke isn't actually that funny."

"Jas, that's—" Geralt cut himself off and shook his head. 

Jaskier tilted his head curiously. "No, no. Please, Ger. What were you going to say?"

Geralt shot him a pointed look. "It doesn't matter."

"I suppose it wouldn't to you. That's par for the course."

Geralt rubbed his eyes. "That's not what I meant."

"I wouldn't know that, now would I? Perhaps this is news to you, but communication requires communicating. You are familiar with the concept, yes?"

"Jaskier." Again with that warning growl.

"Yes, dear?" Jaskier offered a sly smile.

Geralt grunted his frustration and trained his eyes straight ahead.

"Ciri, darling," Jaskier said lightly. "Would you like to hear all my love songs?"

The glare that Geralt fixed on the bard just made Jaskier smirk. 

Ciri only hesitated a moment before saying, "Yes, please."

#

The walk to Aldersberg took all day, and Geralt was far more tired than he should have been by the end of it. Jaskier had gone through no less than twelve ballads, some more tragic than others. They were all familiar. Maybe if Geralt had been paying better attention, he might have noticed the running themes between them, namely unrequited love, agony, and longing. 

Jaskier had started writing them around the time Yennefer showed up, but Geralt knew better than to believe that Jaskier was singing about her. That only left him as a common factor, though. Geralt felt guilty enough without the reminder that he'd done serious harm to Jaskier. But then, his guilt wasn't really the important part of all this.

How long had Jaskier suffered? Geralt wasn't arrogant enough to assume he was the main factor or even a significant one in Jaskier's lack of attachment to life. In fact, he suspected that, even if Jaskier's affections were reciprocated, it wouldn't cure him of his proclivity for misery. Matters of the mind were seldom so easily solved. Still, Geralt hadn't made Jaskier's moods any easier.

Yennefer had been right, of course. Geralt had no doubt that they'd be bound together until the end of their lives, whether they wanted it or not. His bond to Jaskier seemed far more tenuous. There was no djinn magic tying their fates. If they wanted to stay together, it'd take more work, and right now, the whole thing seemed incredibly delicate. Geralt feared he'd break it with just a glance. After all, he was better at destroying things than putting them back together.

When they arrived in Aldersberg, they bought a proper dress and shoes for Yennefer before finding an inn. She insisted on having two rooms—one for herself and Ciri, and one for Geralt and Jaskier. The arrangement made sense, so Geralt could hardly protest, even if the idea of sharing an enclosed space with Jaskier made him twitchy.

At least by the time they'd gotten meals and resupplied for their trip, it was late into the night. Geralt's fatigue dampened his feelings while he trudged into the inn's room with Jaskier. It was unremarkable, with scuffed floorboard and peeling walls. Two beds sat opposite a dirty window looking out upon a cloudy sky. The storm from the south had caught up, sending heavy sheets of rain down upon the city. Thunder reverberated through the air every couple minutes.

Geralt had started to shed his armor when Jaskier came up behind him and expertly unfastened the various straps and buckles. It was one of many rituals they'd developed over the years. Jaskier didn't even seem aware of what he was doing until Geralt placed a hand over his.

"Oh, sorry," Jaskier mumbled, fingers already halfway done with a strap holding a shoulder guard together.

Geralt caught the bard's wrist before he could pull away. "I'd welcome the assistance," he said. The request left him feeling more vulnerable than it should have for something so banal.

Jaskier hesitated a moment, but then continued his work. He had the armor off far faster than Geralt had ever managed on his own. Of course the bard was good with his hands. They were part of his trade. Geralt tried not to think of the fleeting warmth at the ends of Jaskier's fingertips while he stripped away the armor. It felt treacherously close to being undressed.

But as soon as he was done, Jaskier stepped back and sat on his bed. He pulled his boots off wordlessly. It was rare that he was so quiet before bed, but then, it was very late. They were both tired.

Geralt shed down to his shorts before sitting on his bed. Jaskier pulled off his pants, but left on the shirt, Geralt's shirt. There was some primal instinct in Geralt that revelled in the bard wearing his clothes. If he were braver, he might have called it possessiveness. 

"You're staring," Jaskier said while running his fingers over a scar in his thigh—where an arrow had hit him probably.

"May I?" Geralt asked, honestly curious about the extent of the bard's hex.

Jaskier nodded his affirmation, and Geralt leaned forward to gently pass his fingers over the circular scar. It was firm, fully healed evidently. Beside it on Jaskier's inner thigh were long, parallel lines. A couple had definitely been deep enough to sever the femoral artery, fatal cuts and made deliberately. Dimly, Geralt noted that Jaskier would never hurt himself somewhere that would have been obvious, especially if he knew he would reanimate.

"Don't think about them," Jaskier murmured, voice uncommonly rough.

Geralt let his hand wander to Jaskier's abdomen, lifting the shirt as he went. The scar there was just to the right of Jaskier's navel. The arrow there would have punctured intestines, a slow but guaranteed death. He would've been in so much pain. Gut wounds hurt more than most other injuries.

Jaskier grabbed Geralt's wrist. "It doesn't hurt anymore," he said tightly. "You don't need to fuss over me."

Geralt flattened his hand on Jaskier's stomach, noting the small shiver the movement elicited. "There was once a time when you would've liked me to fuss over you."

"No, there was once a time when I wanted to know you cared." Jaskier had a defiant tilt to his chin, and the fire in his blue eyes was decidedly angry.

"Do you not want that anymore?" The strain in Geralt's voice surprised him.

"Seems dangerous to want, and I've had quite enough of hurting myself."

"Have I made myself so untrustworthy?"

Jaskier's jaw set. He looked down at the floor. "I'm not going anywhere. You don't need to treat me like glass."

"Perhaps I should have." Geralt let his fingers wander up through a thatch of chest hair. 

Jaskier's grip on his wrist tightened. His breathing came faster. "Why are you doing this?"

Why, indeed? 

Geralt found the third scar left by an arrow. It was a small bump where chest met shoulder. The thought of Jaskier bleeding out, knowing he'd die again, made Geralt's chest tighten. This was insanity. It didn't matter if Geralt pushed Jaskier away or pulled him close. The bard would always find danger. It was in his nature as much as it was in Geralt's. 

"I'm sorry." The two words weren't what Geralt expected to leave his mouth, but he meant them.

Jaskier closed his eyes and took a breath. "Am I a fool to forgive you?"

_Took the stars and moon_

_Stole them from my sky._

_Left me in ruins,_

_And yet I can't die._

_Broke my heart, it's cracked._

_And now my love's not coming back._

"Maybe," Geralt conceded as Jaskier's lyrics echoed in his head. "Your songs are about me, aren't they?"

"Figure that out yourself?" Jaskier's tone was sharp. "Only took you twelve years."

"Hmm." Geralt didn't like how casual Jaskier sounded, how tired. This hardly felt like a profession of love, though that was what was happening. Then again, Jaskier had carried this with him for years. It probably was cumbersome to him, and he also didn't expect anything to come of this conversation. 

"Don't concern yourself," he mumbled on a sigh. "Doesn't change anything. I'll be out of your hair in the morning."

Geralt's stomach dropped. "What do you mean?"

Jaskier's eyes opened then to set on the witcher. "The twins are going to be after us. I can't let them catch up to you and Ciri."

"So you're going to face them alone?" Geralt said incredulously.

"What are they going to do? Kill me?" Jaskier let out a breath when Geralt scowled. "Look, I am your best chance at stopping the twins without risking either yourself or Ciri. Worst case scenario, I die for a little bit."

"That's unacceptable." Geralt couldn't help the knot of fear in his chest. "We don't know how strong your hex is."

"Fucking look at me, Geralt." Jaskier gestured to his face. "I'll be fine."

Geralt chewed his lip a moment. "And after the twins are dealt with? What then?"

Jaskier shrugged. "I go on my merry way. What's it matter to you? You've got better things to do than worry about one bard. Don't think my feelings mean you owe me anything. I don't need your pity."

Geralt's temper got the best of him. He shoved Jaskier back on the bed and fisted his hand in the bard's shirt. "Would you shut up for a second?" he growled. 

"Why?" The defiance in Jaskier's eyes was infuriating. "Do you finally have something to say? What the fuck do you want from me, Geralt? Haven't I given enough?"

"I won't let you die again!" Geralt virtually hissed the words.

"You don't get to decide that!"

"You're so fucking stubborn!"

"That's rich coming from you!"

Geralt had forgotten how headstrong Jaskier could be. Everyone was fooled by the bard's highborn manners and frilly aesthetic, but he could be a real son of a bitch when he wanted. Hell, he'd taken three arrows for Yennefer and then insisted she leave him behind with his literal dying breath. 

"Why are you so keen on trying to kill yourself?" Geralt demanded, voice only slightly softer. 

Jaskier looked away, the muscles in his neck taut. "Not all of us were blessed with knowing our purpose. I've yet to find the point of my existence, singing to crowds I'll never remember and bedding nobles I'll never love."

Geralt's grip loosened, and he moved his hand from Jaskier's shirt to brace it on the bed. They were so close.

"Then live for me," Geralt breathed.

Jaskier hesitantly lifted his eyes. "Careful there. Might get my hopes up with a request like that."

"They're not hopes." Geralt swallowed. For fuck's sake, he was over fifty. Talking shouldn't be so hard.

"Oh? What would you call them then? Dreams? Aspirations? Reverie?"

Geralt leaned down until their lips brushed, drawing a sharp inhale from Jaskier. "They're not any of those."

For once, Jaskier shut up.

"I thought you died once. I won't go through that again." Geralt let his body press down.

Jaskier's eyes were wide. "Please don't do this as a manipulation or out of pity. That's too cruel."

"It's neither."

"Then why?"

Geralt cupped Jaskier’s cheek and smoothed his thumb over the skin there. “How did the words go? ‘To mine eyes, perfect reverie.’”

Jaskier’s breath left him in a rush. “You’re a bastard.”

“Shut up.” Geralt closed the distance between their lips, effectively cutting off whatever the bard was going to say.

Jaskier arched up readily. His hands tangled in Geralt’s hair to tug lightly, eliciting a groan. The taste of rainwater lingered on their tongues. Thunder cracked distantly, making the room hum for a moment with the reverberations. Warmth burned between the press of their bodies.

Jaskier kissed with all the confidence and finesse with which he sang. When his teeth caught Geralt’s lip, it threatened to be too much a moment before the soft pass of tongue mollified the sting. Geralt couldn’t help letting his hand wander up Jaskier’s side, feeling the lean muscle there. His thigh pressed between both of the bard’s.

Light flashed through the room a moment before thunder roared again, closer this time. Jaskier rolled his hips in such a way that Geralt felt it up his spine, drawing an involuntary groan. He returned the movement and was pleased when Jaskier gasped. Their kiss broken momentarily, Geralt found himself staring down into sea blue eyes.

_If I wished for one thing_

_A djinn's magic might bring,_

_I would have you for one more day._

_I would fall in love and stay._

#

Jaskier felt like he was drowning. Geralt was all hard muscle and power bearing down on him, and succumbing to it was easy. Jaskier didn’t want to come up for air. The hands tugging at his shirt barely got it off one arm before Jaskier had his mouth at Geralt’s throat, licking patterns into the skin there. The witcher tasted of sweat and rain. He’d probably resent marks being left behind, and Jaskier was sorely tempted to see how much he’d get away with. His ministrations saw only seconds of work before Geralt shoved him back down. 

The nails digging into Jaskier’s sides hooked into his shorts and tugged. Light flashed again through the room, followed shortly by thunder. Geralt’s head was between his thighs before the rumble faded. A choked breath was all Jaskier got out before wet heat enveloped him. He pitched his head back involuntarily, and his hands grabbed at the arms holding his hips in place.

Geralt’s tongue ran up the length of his cock before his lips enclosed on the head. A whimper left Jaskier when that clever mouth swallowed him down. He felt as though he were held on a knife’s edge between overwhelm and elation, waiting to see if he broke apart or if Geralt held him together. 

The first press of a finger at his entrance made his vision blur for a moment. Light filled the room. The thunder that came with was nearly drowned out by Jaskier’s heartbeat in his ears. He was used to being the most active party in bed, but it seemed Geralt was making a mission of taking him apart. 

“Fuck,” Jaskier rasped when the finger in him curled torturously. “Please tell me you have oil.”

Geralt lifted his mouth from Jaskier’s cock, letting it fall to the side. He was slower to remove his finger, and when he stood, Jaskier covered his eyes with the back of his hand, trying to catch his breath. He was normally more composed in bed. This was borderline embarrassing, being reduced to this. Somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to care all that much.

The first touch of fingers at his thigh had him move his hand away. Geralt knelt at the edge of the bed, fingers running across the self-inflicted scars in Jaskier’s thigh. A word of objection almost left Jaskier, but then Geralt’s fingers were pressing into him again and all reason vanished.

Geralt was impossibly gentle. The fingers in Jaskier curled and stretched him with deliberate care, and every pass over that bundle of nerves at the base of his spine stole his breath. He barely felt the third finger slide in. All he knew was want and need and urgency. Twenty-two years of waiting bolstered his drive for more and now. It was raw hunger. He didn’t even notice the volume of his voice until a prod deeper into him drew a cry in competition with the thunder outside.

“Please,” he rasped and grabbed at Geralt’s shoulders.

Lips met his a moment before the fingers slipped out of him. He was getting sloppy, he knew, as he licked into Geralt’s mouth. A keening whine left him pathetically at the first feel of hard warm at his entrance. His thighs fell apart as he forced his lower muscles to relax.

Geralt abruptly pulled away and stared down at him. “Are you sure?” he asked.

“Don’t keep me waiting,” Jaskier said in answer and rolled his hips down, delighting in the abrupt heat that flared in Geralt’s eyes.

The push in went slow, not by Jaskier’s choice. Geralt took his time. He pressed kisses to Jaskier’s throat while embedding himself deeper and deeper. The stretch of it was difficult, even with the pace, but burning didn’t pair with the feeling of fullness to indicate tearing. Jaskier wouldn’t have cared either way, honestly. He just wanted to feel them joined.

Geralt paused a few seconds when he bottomed out. “All right?” he prompted. “How do you feel?”

This was all very well and sweet, but Jaskier needed more. “Yes. Good. Please move.”

Geralt’s chuckle vibrated between them. He pulled his hips back and pushed forward again far too slowly. The pace he started was unhurried, and Jaskier quickly grew impatient. It was teasing of the worst sort. He couldn't even bring himself to ask for more while pleasure stole his voice. All he could do was dig his nails into Geralt's back and try to breathe.

Geralt only sped up when he grabbed Jaskier's cock to stroke it in time with his thrusts. He squeezed his eyes shut as he flirted with the edge. His legs trembled obscenely, and the creak of the bed seemed to be getting louder than the thunder.

The first real thrust sent stars behind Jaskier's eyelids. He arched off the bed, gripping desperately at Geralt's shoulders. A scream stuck in his throat as the witcher picked up a punishing pace. Geralt buried his face in the crook of Jaskier's neck, their breaths ragged.

Lightning seemed to shoot through Jaskier. He couldn't hear his own voice over the roar of his pulse, or maybe it was the thunder. His climax hit him in waves that didn't spare him a second a breath. A couple stuttered thrusts later, and Geralt was tumbling after Jaskier. 

By the time the world started to come back into focus, Geralt had stopped. His full weight bore down on Jaskier. Their breaths were already growing deeper and more even. Sweat clung to their skin. Jaskier threaded his fingers through Geralt's hair with a contented sigh. 

"I think," he said, "that you might actually like me."

Geralt huffed out a chuckle. "If the message didn't get through, I'll have to impress it again."

"If you're trying to seduce me, I'll have you know that I am already well and thoroughly seduced." Jaskier bit his lip as thunder shook the walls. "This wasn't a pity fuck, right?"

Geralt sighed. "No, Jas."

"So you actually want me?"

"Yes, Jas."

"Foolish."

Geralt lifted his head, a question in his gold eyes. "I always thought your self-deprecating comments were jest, but you actually mean them, don't you?"

Jaskier stared up at those eyes and sighed. "It's hard to say sometimes, but yes, I'm not always joking."

"Hmm."

"Don't think too much on it," Jaskier cautioned. "You'll remember comments like 'your voice is like pie without filling,' and really, some things are better left forgotten."

Geralt grimaced. “Were you actually hurt by that?”

“No, I’m quite confident in my bardic abilities. It’s the self-worth portion that I never got much practice in.” Jaskier glanced down. “Is it possible we could have this conversation while you’re not in me? I’m getting a weird confliction of feelings.”

Geralt slid to the side and gathered Jaskier into his arms. “I wish you’d told me about the hex years ago.”

“I was worried you’d try to find a cure for it,” Jaskier admitted honestly. He pressed his cheek to Geralt’s chest and breathed in deeply.

“I thought you wanted death.” Confusion laced through Geralt’s voice.

“I knew I did, and I knew what I would do as soon as the hex was lifted. I didn’t want to give myself the temptation.” Jaskier thought of the scars on Yennefer’s wrists, displayed for the world, while his remained hidden on his thigh. “It’s gotten easier to cope with over the years. There’s something oddly liberating about having my choice in the matter removed. Makes me want to make the most of the life I’m forced to live...on good days. Some are harder than others, but that’s always been true.”

Geralt ran his fingers through Jaskier’s hair, and gods, it was nothing short of divine. “You do realize that you might live half a millennium like this, right?”

Jaskier nodded. His eyelids lowered, unable to stay open any longer. He felt warm and comfortable and safe, and that alone could lull him to sleep, even if he wasn’t dead tired.

“I don’t understand,” Geralt said. “Why put yourself through that, if you don’t want to live?”

“Because I wouldn’t get to see you anymore.”

Geralt’s fingers paused. “Jas, that’s…”

“Don’t let it go to your head.” Jaskier’s words slurred slightly. “You’re still the worst.”

Geralt turned them, so they were lying lengthwise on the bed. Silence fell between them a long moment.

“You’re still planning to stay behind, aren’t you?” Geralt murmured, voice nearly disappearing under the rain pattering on the roof.

Jaskier chewed his lip, knowing Geralt wouldn’t like the answer. “Are you going to stop me?”

“No, you’re right. You’re our best chance, with the lowest possibility of permanent damage.”

“But?” Jaskier prompted, sensing there was more.

Geralt took a long time to answer. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Jaskier forced his eyes open and looked up at the witcher. “I was never going to not get hurt, not from the moment we met, and I’m no stranger to pain. Let me make my suffering worth something.”

Geralt held Jaskier’s gaze, searching for any hint of hesitance. He wouldn’t find any. “Come back then.”

A smile touched Jaskier’s lips. “Always.”

#

Yennefer left in the morning, as she said she would. Geralt tried not to think about what she was running toward, but it was impossible to avoid. He’d lived through more than one war at this point, each one horrific in its own right. This one promised to be the worst yet.

He and Ciri walked with Jaskier as far as the edge of town. The entrance onto the northernmost road was lined with trees. Foothills rose on the horizon, covered in fog. Rain still fell and turned the ground to mud. 

The twins probably wouldn’t reach Aldersberg for another day or so, but Jaskier had to be waiting for them, had to stop them here. 

Ciri sat on Roach, her eyes set on Geralt and Jaskier below. She had a knowing glint to her stare. Jaskier had mentioned earlier that he thought she’d make a good spy, maybe even a good bard. He had to stick around long enough to teach her the trade.

“We’ll be waiting in Gulet,” Geralt said to Jaskier. “If you’re not there in five days, I have to assume the worst.”

Jaskier nodded. “If I can’t get to you in that time, I’ll find you wherever you go. “

A spark of hope lit in Geralt’s chest, tempered only by the ice of his fear. “Is that a promise?”

“As best as I can make.” Jaskier wiped the water from his eyes. The rain had nearly drenched them both from how long they’d been out in the open.

Geralt smoothed the bard’s damp hair back. “Be careful.”

Jaskier’s smile was wry. “You’re going to make me weak at the knees. I’ll have to write sonnets.”

“You talk too much.” Geralt leaned forward to capture Jaskier’s lips, not caring that Ciri was watching. If the bard was going to travel with them, she was bound to witness more anyway.

Jaskier was all soft warmth and comfort. He virtually melted against Geralt, inspiring heated memories of the previous night. Pulling away was difficult.

“If this is your new method for getting me to shut up,” Jaskier whispered, “I’m quite all right with it.”

“You’ll regret those words.” Geralt didn’t mean to sound so breathless, but the bard did something to him, always had.

Jaskier pressed their foreheads together. “Go. I’ll be right behind you.”

Geralt kissed him once more, a chaste thing, before he stepped back. Ciri kept her eyes on Jaskier as they started forward down the road. Geralt couldn’t bear to look back.

“Will he really be all right?” Ciri asked. 

“I don’t know,” Geralt answered honestly.

She frowned. “Will you be all right if he isn’t?”

He wasn’t expecting the question and took a moment to consider it. “I don’t think so.”

She didn’t ask anything else, falling silent again. He kept his eyes straight forward. If he looked back now, his feet wouldn’t take another step.

#

The twins came in the middle of the night. Jaskier was waiting for them on the southern road. Rain still came down lightly, the bulk of the storm past. The droplets glittered in the moonlight breaking through the clouds. Two figures grew larger from down the road, their forms too rounded to be the shadows of the trees. 

Jaskier had no less than three knives on his person, one already in his hand. The hilt had warmed from his body heat. His main difficulty would be the ranged twin. She could loose multiple arrows in the time it took him to get near enough to hurt her, but he would try anyway.

As soon as he saw the glint of a blade, he sprinted forward. An arrow flew past his ear, cutting the lobe as it went. He got to the first twin just as the second arrow shot through his shoulder. Pain burst from the wound. It felt almost like an old friend. 

A sword emerged out of the darkness, and he made no move to dodge it. The tip drove through his side. He reached out to grab the hand holding the hilt and dragged it closer. The sword slid deeper into him as he lifted his knife and sliced at the first flash of skin he saw. Blood sprayed in arcs, its warmth on Jaskier’s hand the only differentiation from the rain. The woman dropped immediately. Her hands clutched her bleeding neck.

He pulled the sword out of him before heading for the archer who stood a few paces back. The tip of her arrow glinted before it flew. Jaskier barely felt it tear through this gut and rushed forward. He was on her before she loosed another arrow and waved the sword wildly. It caught first in her hip and then against her ribcage, but not deep enough to kill. He dropped the sword in favor of his knife again and threw his weight at her. They fell to the muddy ground.

She clawed at his arms, ripping away skin, while he tried to bring the knife down on her chest. The tip was at her breast. It slowly lowered as he put all his strength behind it, and she pushed up at him. A scream tore out of her when he finally breached skin. An inch more, and her arms gave out. The blade burrowed into her chest. Her scream died abruptly. 

He collapsed beside her, breathing heavily. The ground was freezing and wet. Blood flowed out of him in thick streams. He had a couple seconds maybe before the wound in his side drained him fully. His eyes turned to the sky, catching glimpses of the stars between the clouds flying by.

He barely had time to wonder if he’d wake up this time before the darkness crushed him.

#

_We’re walking through the night,_

_And it’s raining. And I’m singing._

_We’re following the starlight,_

_And the moon’s bright. And I’m thinking,_

_“When will this road ever end?_

_Don’t want to keep just being friends.”_

_It’s been twenty years now,_

_And my tears don’t sting like they used to._

_Will we get there somehow?_

_Am I better off without you?_

_We’re here, but I’m still dying_

_And why do I keep trying?_

_I just keep crying._

Geralt followed the sound of music down the inn’s stairs. His heart pounded in his chest while the floorboards creaked beneath his boots. The first floor was a pub of sorts, with a short bar at the back and a couple tables spread throughout. Patrons sat around in a sparse smattering, hardly a proper audience. But that had never been an issue.

Jaskier sat on a stool near the bar, strumming his lute as he sang.

_If I’m holding my breath hopelessly,_

_And you feel nothing when you look at me,_

_Just let me go. Please set me free._

_Or else trap me, so I can’t ever leave._

_If you're just a fever I've got to break,_

_I'll let time numb the ache._

_My heart’s in your hands, bound in chains,_

_But maybe I’ve learned to love the pain._

Geralt was across the room before he could think about it. Jaskier looked up from his lute, hand abruptly stopping on the strings. A slow smile spread his lips.

“Found you.”


End file.
